


To the Bone

by DSK1138



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Blackmail, Desk Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Coercion, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, pharma is worried about him, ratchet works way too hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:01:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DSK1138/pseuds/DSK1138
Summary: Ratchet's been working himself to the bone at his Dead End clinic, and things only get worse when he's blackmailed by one of the senate's enforcers.
Relationships: Pharma & Ratchet (Transformers), ratchet/unnamed male character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	To the Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Cranked this story out in the middle of a sleepless night after I got to thinking about Ratchet and Pharma's friendship. Recently I've gone from seeing Pharma as a full-out villain to seeing him as something of a tragic and sympathetic character. Pharma made a lot of sacrifices to do what he thought was right, and in the end the pressure the DJD put on him was too much. It made me wonder what kind of sacrifices Ratchet would have had to make to do what he thought was best, and this little fic was born.
> 
> As the tags state, this fic contains some uncomfortable topics like non-con and blackmailing someone into sex.

“Ratchet? Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?”

“Mm.” Ratchet follows with a convincing reply. Truth be told, he’s not listening to whatever tangent Pharma has gone onto. Guilt stirs in his field. He knows he should be more appreciative. Pharma so rarely comes to this part of town. In fact, Ratchet can count the number of times on one servo.

It’s not that he’s not grateful for the company. It’s been far too long. He misses their conversations. Meeting Pharma at some swanky new bar after work and starting a lively debate about the newest medical technologies

Ratchet doesn’t drink anymore. Not since the first week he opened his Dead End clinic. Between this clinic and his shifts at the Deltaran Medical Facility, he barely has time to sleep, let alone socialize. He’s worked himself to the core, not that he’ll admit it openly. It’s just what the senate wants.

-

The first few months went well. _Too_ well. Hundreds of bots passed under his servos. Bots who were on the brink of death. Bots who actually _needed_ him. For the first time, Ratchet felt _useful_. And with Orion around to offer extra protection from anyone who would even think twice about robbing him, he’d felt safe.

He was a fool to think it would be that easy. It wasn’t even a year before the senate caught onto him and sent an enforcer his way

It had been one of his rare moments alone, no patients and Orion off performing his duties elsewhere. The moment the shadow crossed his entryway, Ratchet knew he was in trouble. The mech was in too good of shape to be a resident of the Dead End. His plating carried enough wear to be deceptive, but one look beyond that, to the perfectly calibrated joints and healthy rumble of his engine told Ratchet all he needed to know.

The mech was at least twice Ratchet’s size, and sported an obnoxiously pointy frame. Jagged studs protruded from every place a mech could think to stick them. It was ugly as hell, and a clashing red and pink color scheme did him no favors.

“Unless you’re dying, I’m afraid I’m rather busy right now.”

“Really? You don’t look that busy to me, Medic Ratchet.”

Ratchet’s optics widened a little at the use of his designation. He’d tried to keep his operations here as secret as possible, but this mech knew exactly who he was. It didn’t bode well.

The mech stepped closer, casually leaning against one of Ratchet’s tables as if they were old friends. Ratchet couldn’t help noticing the particularly sharp studs that adorned the back of the mech’s knuckles.

“Get to the point. What do you want?”

“Heh. I think you’d be more interested to know what the _senate_ wants. You see, Ratchet, they’ve been hearing a lot of nasty rumors about you. Word is, you’ve been fixing up leakers, addicts. Street mechs. Wasting your Primus-forged talents on hopeless dropouts is beneath you.”

“Why do they care what I spend my personal time doing? I’m still at their beck and call every time one of them suffers some minor ailment.” His tone was biting, but his voice held a waver that betrayed the underlying fear he felt in that moment.

The mech raised a brow. “It’s not a good look. Medic of your caliber, treating the street mechs like they’re worthy of the same privileges as the upper class. Some bots might start to get ideas. You’re not one of those Decepticons, are you?”

“No,” Ratchet huffed. “I’m just doing my job. I was forged to fix other bots, so that’s what I do.”

The other mech stood and began to pace a circle around him, which did nothing to help Ratchet’s unease.

“The senate doesn’t like it. They want you to stop.”

Anger flared in Ratchet’s field. _No! He had_ not _just spent all this time only for his efforts to go to waste!_

Before he could lash out, the other mech continued. “I don’t need to tell you what the price is if you displease the senate too much. It would be a shame for such talented hands to go to waste."

He stopped right behind Ratchet and leaned in close, close enough that Ratchet could feel the warm vents on the back of his neck.

“Or such a pretty face, for that matter.”

Ratchet shuddered. There was something predatory in the other mech’s tone. He breathed a quiet vent of relief as he heard the pede steps resume, circling the rest of the way around until the mech was standing in front of him. His relief didn’t last long, however, when the mech’s gaze raked over him, looking him up and down, as if he was examining a prized cyberhorse.

“It doesn’t have to be that way, though. I’m a flexible mech, and you’re not too rough on the optics. Maybe we can work out a trade, yes? You do something for me, and I’ll forget everything about your little clinic.”

“Get smelted,” Ratchet growled. He’d had quite enough of this mech already, and he didn’t at all like what was being insinuated.

Before he could even blink, a hand came up and gripped his throat, slamming him against the wall. His intake strained against the pressure, and Ratchet struggled weakly, but the other mech’s strength far outmatched his own.

“I’m trying to help you, you ungrateful filth! I could kill you right here and it would be _merciful_ compared to what the senate will do to you. Now, I’ll give you one more chance. You provide me with some quick, easy entertainment to help me through a long and grueling shift, or I drag you back to the senate, and let me tell you, they are a _lot_ harder to persuade than I am.”

The grip on his throat relaxed, and Ratchet let out a choked cough, trying to catch his breath. He wanted to believe this mech was lying. That this wasn’t really happening. But what good would it to do lie to himself? He’d been found out. He could lose his career, his _life_ , or he could swallow his pride and do whatever small degradation this mech asked of him

“Fine,” he growled at last, and the other mech released him with a laugh.

“You’re a spirited one. Good. I like them feisty.” As if in agreement, his interface panel retracted and his spike leapt free, already pressurized.

Ratchet tried not to wince. It was big. There had been a time, once, when Ratchet had taken spikes even larger than that, but the time had long since passed since he’d had _any_ kind of sexual interfacing. It would not be comfortable, and he doubted the enforcer would spend any time worrying about Ratchet’s comfort.

“Frag you,” he muttered weakly as the mech pulled him close, fondling shamelessly at Ratchet’s plating.

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you. Why don’t you put it to good use?

Ratchet sank to his knees before the mech could shove him. Disgust played out across his features. He’d agreed to this, but he wasn’t about to pretend to _like_ it.

“Whenever you’re ready, _doctor._ ” The last word was spoken in a mocking tone, and it was all Ratchet could do to refrain from biting down as hard as he could as he took the mech’s spike into his mouth.

He didn’t waste much time on licking and stroking. Not like he would have with a consensual lover. He just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. He sucked the mech’s spike deeper, until the head rested uncomfortably at the entrance to his intake. He started to bob his helm, but was interrupted when the mech stepped closer, and Ratchet was forced to rest his servos on the mech’s thighs to steady himself.  
  
“C’mon, don’t hold out on me. I know you can take more than that.”   
  
A rough servo on the back of his helm shoved Ratchet further onto the mech’s spike, and he gagged as it breached his intake.   
  
“That’s more like it,” the other mech groaned. “Maybe there’s a reason your career advanced so quickly.”   
  
Ratchet didn’t fall for the jab, too focused on trying to keep his fans blowing to keep from overheating, what with his main source of air cut off.   
  
Another shove, and tears sprang to his optics as his mouth was forced to stretch painfully around the intrusion. He made a muffled noise of protest, but it only seemed to encourage the other mech, who began to thrust with an excited vigor, his spike piercing Ratchet’s throat again and again. 

He lost track of how long it went on for, but it was far too long for Ratchet’s liking. Finally, mercifully, the mech’s spike throbbed with impending overload, and it was perhaps another small mercy that he pulled out just before releasing his transfluids, sparing Ratchet the humiliation of having to swallow it all down

Then again, the humiliation that awaited him was worse, as the mech took hold of his swollen spike and aimed it right at Ratchet’s face, coating the medic with his load until Ratchet’s plating dripped with the silvery sticky substance. His tanks churned and it was all Ratchet could do not to purge right there on the mech’s pedes.

Instead, with the last scraps of dignity he managed to muster, he reached up a servo to wipe the transfluid out of his optics and leaned back on his heels, gazing up at the mech who now bore a predatory grin.  
  
“Messy is a good look for you. That pristine white plating was just begging to be soiled.” He laughed, then, to add insult to injury, reached forward to give Ratchet a condescending pat on the helm.

“Well, I’ve got other business to attend to, but this was nice. I look forward to receiving your services again next month.” With a final parting wink, he made his exit, and as soon as he was gone, Ratchet really did purge.

Whatever shields he’d built for himself shattered in that moment, and he flopped to his side, curling in on himself as trembles racked his frame. If he believed in Primus, it would be some small divine grace that allowed him to maintain his last few shreds of dignity by no one walking in to find him like that.

When he finally found the ability to move again, it had already gotten dark outside. He locked the front entrance and headed straight to the washracks. Tomorrow was going to be busy, and he had no time to waste.

-

“I can go, if you’re busy.”

Ratchet looks up from the surgical tools he’s washing, and catches Pharma looking at him with an expression that is something halfway between concern and pity, and that angers him. He doesn’t want Pharma’s fragging pity. But he _does_ want Pharma’s company.

“No. I want you to stay.”

He turns off the faucet and collapses into a chair. He knows he must look awful. It’s been two full cycles without recharge. He almost lost a patient in surgery this morning, right before Pharma showed up.

“Ratchet, you really should get more rest.”  
  
“Tell that to my patients,” he grunts, looking away to study a dent on his plating. He can’t remember how he got it.

“You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself, you know. There are plenty of bots at the DMF who need your help. Why do you waste so much of your energy here, helping leakers who can’t even properly appreciate your talents?”

They’ve had this conversation before, and in the past Ratchet has been very vocal about just where Pharma can stick his opinions on Ratchet’s clinic, but today he doesn’t have the energy for it. Besides, it’s so rare that he sees Pharma these days. It would be foolish to spend their limited time together bickering.

Thankfully, Pharma backs off, and something in his expression softens as he regards Ratchet. He opens his mouth to say something, but then his optics flicker to the entrance.

“You have company.”

As if this day couldn’t possibly get any worse, Ratchet whirls around and locks optics with the enforcer.

“Ratchet,” the mech greets him with a warm smile, walking over to clap a hand on his shoulder as if they’re old friends.

“Please excuse us,” he says to Pharma. “Ratchet and I have some business to attend to. We’ll only be a moment.”

A sick feeling coils in Ratchet’s tanks, but he follows the mech into his office, locking the door behind them.

“So, entertaining another mech when you’re not with me, are you? And here I thought I was special.” The mech mocks being hurt.

“He’s just my colleague.”

“A handsome colleague.”

There’s an implication there, a tone to the mech’s voice that Ratchet doesn’t like at all. He drops to his knees all too hastily, hoping to get on with things.

“You know, Ratchet, as alluring as the sight of you on your knees is, I had something a little different in mind today.”

“Let me guess. You want to suck my spike instead this time?”

Despite his dry tone, Ratchet’s plating trembles. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“No, but your humor doesn’t go unappreciated. In fact, it might just be my favorite of your many attractive qualities.”

He takes hold of Ratchet’s arm, guiding him back to his pedes and over to his desk.

“Open your valve panel.”

Ratchet grits his dentae, but doesn’t make a move. He should have guessed it would come to this eventually. He weighs the pros and cons of protesting, but he knows the fight is lost even before the mech speaks up again.

“Of course, if you don’t feel up to it, maybe your colleague would like to take your place?”

“No. He’s a terrible lay, anyways,” Ratchet mutters, letting his interface panel slide open. The chilly office air brushes against his exposed valve, and he shivers.

He doesn’t even have time to relax before there are hands all over him, dipping into whatever seams the massive fingers can fit into, groping at his thighs and aft. One finger finds his node, pressing against it with all the subtlety of a seeker in rut. The mech grows bored quickly of fondling him, however, and with one massive hand against Ratchet’s back, he bends him over the desk, shoving Ratchet’s chest against the metallic surface.

It’s humiliating, to think he’ll be fragged like that, bent over his _own fragging desk_. Ratchet won’t be able to do his paperwork in this room for some time, he thinks with another shudder.

He hears the snap of another interface panel retracting, and then the thick head of a spike is pressing against the folds of his valve. Ratchet sends a command to his valve to produce lubrication.

It doesn’t do much to stop the pain, however, as the mech kicks Ratchet’s legs further apart and pierces his valve in one rough thrust. Ratchet squeezes his optics shut, gritting his dentae as the intruding spike plows its way through his valve, scraping against his nodes and stretching the walls beyond the point of comfort.

Despite how he tries to hide his pain, the other mech seems to pick up on it, and it’s like an _encouragement_ to him. He sets a brutal pace, fragging Ratchet against his own desk so hard that it scrapes a little ways across the floor with each thrust.

Ratchet, for the most part, takes it quietly, save for the occasional gasp or grunt of pain.

Greedy servos grope at his hips, his windshield, his aft-- everywhere they can reach. Never in his life has Ratchet felt so _used_ and he wants to scream. Wants to retch. Wants to tear his own plating off.

The mech’s overload hits him with just as much force as the rest of this session, a jet of scalding transfluid spilling into his valve, filling him far past the point of discomfort. When the mech pulls out, a silver trail follows his spike, dripping down the backs Ratchet’s thighs and onto the floor.

He gives Ratchet’s aft a condescending pat, tucking himself back into his housing with a satisfied smirk.

“You are a wonder for stress relief. Maybe next time I’ll bring a couple of my buddies. I bet you could help them out, ain’t that right, _doctor_?" The modifying glyph he attaches to Ratchet’s title makes him fume, but he’s too spent to do anything but stand up straight on shaky legs, ignoring the ache in his valve.

The mech shows himself out, closing the door behind him and giving Ratchet enough privacy to wipe down his plating and attempt to hide any red scuff marks before he steps out to see Pharma.  
  
“Ratchet! Who was that?” There’s a slight panic in Pharma’s voice that Ratchet has never heard before as the jet’s optics look him over, concern written all over the other medic’s features. Perhaps Ratchet didn’t hide what happened to him as well as he’d thought.

“Are you ok?” Pharma follows up, voice soft, and even somewhat comforting.

Ratchet ignores the question, resuming the cleaning he’d been doing before as if nothing had interrupted him.

“Ratchet, I…”

“You what, Pharma? You want to tell me again what a stupid idea it is to run a clinic in the Dead End? How dangerous it is? How I could get hurt? Well, I’m really not in the mood for another lecture.”

Pharma watches him for a moment, vocalizer resetting several times before he can speak again.

“Why? Why do you push yourself like this?”

“If I don’t, no one else will. Bots don’t stop needing me just because I turn a blind optic. And if it means I have to go through some real slag to help them, then so be it. The lives I save are worth more than my pride.”

He doesn’t look back up at Pharma. He doesn’t want to see whatever judgement, or worse, pity, is there.

If he had looked, however, he’d perhaps be surprised to see the gears turning in Pharma’s mind as he processed Ratchet’s words.

Pharma leaves soon after, the mood for the day having thoroughly been ruined, and Ratchet goes to bed early.

The next morning, he finds a gift on the doorstep. A nice bottle of engex. Pharma’s favorite engex, to be precise. Attached is a note:

_Ratchet,_

_If you ever need a break, I’m only a comm away. Take care of yourself._

_Pharma_

He has no intention of drinking it anytime soon, but it’s a nice gesture, and something about it puts him in a better mood. He tucks the gift away in a cabinet in his office, and begins setting up his medbay for another day of working himself to the bone.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I'd like to do more one day with Ratchet's and Pharma's friendship, I think there's a lot of interesting material there.


End file.
